Constants and Variables
by Recognition2
Summary: It's all just a matter of perspective, a bunch of scenarios and variables and possibilities, and this brings Blue to wonder what are the constants, the unchanging things in all of this. But then he looks to his left and to his right, and it all dawns on him. They are the constants. Blue, Red, and Leaf.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Pokemon in any way, shape, or form. It's called fanfiction for a reason.**

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It's a mess.

He stands in the middle of Cinnabar, exactly in the middle, and he knows he is because he's actually taken enough time to do the calculations. It's nice, to be in the center of everything and have everything revolve around him, though he knows in reality, things don't and he is _nothing._

Ashes and soot are littered all over the floor. Although the island is barren and empty, they cover it completely, evenly, which he takes account of, because it's _something,_ something ironic to say the least. Because it's strange, really, and a little creepy how nature worked like that. How it could just ravish a whole town, yet leave this reminder, a blanket of remains that covered the place perfectly, that there was a reason.

There always is, isn't there? A reason as to why things happen, and though they may not make sense in a few hours or a few days or a few months or even a few years, they will, someday. And Blue grasps on to this theory for all it's worth, for all he's worth (which isn't a lot, but it's _something_), because it's the only thing he has left, and the only thing that keeps him sane. And really, if he doesn't have anything to hold on to, to believe in and hope for, then what's the point? Because without a purpose, what is he more than just a useless puppet? Without anything to believe in, how would he or _anyone_ know what is up and what is down, what is dream and what is reality? Because without something to hope for, all the boundaries and lines fade away, and all that's left is... _nothing._

Thinking like this hurts his head, but he can't help it because it's all he can do: _think._ And for whatever reason, the pain reminds him that he's still alive, because sometimes he comes to believe that he had already died, _long, long ago,_ when he saw her cry, and saw him leave. He tries to find sense in the little remains of what's left, in the island and in himself and in his torn up life, but can't find anything worth living for because they had been his life and now that they were gone, what else did he have left? He searches desperately for any evidence that his theory is true, but he can't find a reason in anything. For a few years, he had thought he just want looking hard enough, but now it besides clear to him that there isn't anything, and that everything had gone when they had.

Maybe, he thinks, the three of them (or maybe just he is) are like this island. Maybe they were never (or their friendship was never) meant to live in the first place, but then through their (its) demise the world could find something, something _new_ and _better, _whatever it was. And he takes this to heart sometimes, deciding that maybe if his thinking is right and he does (it does) pass, that maybe finally he'll actually be useful for something and would finally make a contribution to the world.

Except he knows it isn't, and that no matter what, he _is_ and _will continue_ to be _nothing._

He's so tiny and insignificant compared to others, to the rest of the world, and this makes him laugh quite bitterly at himself because back then, he was so _clueless_ and _foolish_ and so _utterly stupid_, and that maybe if he were different they'd be with him now, and he wouldn't be here in the first place thinking and dreaming about what could've been, what should've been. But he _was_, and he can't change the fact that so drastically and so rapidly changed his life, like the volcano that burned down this town.

He's sure that if he disappeared, just... _poof,_ off the face of the world, that nobody would care or even notice, because he was nothing and nobody cared for nothing. Because it was, obviously, nothing, and nothing was _nothing_ and didn't even exist. Well, he _did_ exist, but he didn't _want to_, but then again _did_ all the same because he still held on to the hope that there was a reason, that things got better and that one day, they'd come back and they'd be a happy family once more.

But he knows that it is just wishful thinking, because they were so much bigger and better and people like that just didn't associate with _nobodies_ like him, and in a way he was glad because they deserved better than him. But on the other hand, he missed them _so much_, and he wanted them back again.

He supposes giving himself false hope like that is, in a way, just diluting the lines between reality and a dream, because really, the truth was that there was _no hope left,_ and that they'd _never come back_ and he was _alone_. But oh, thinking about the possibility was just so _sweet_ and it was the only thing that kept him grounded to the world, the real world (though he knew that it didn't need him anyways), just for the sake of being there. Just in case.

He sits down and he wonders why he's so incapable of saying their names, and it becomes clear to him then that he can't, really, he can't. Because if he does, then surely, he'd break, and then what would be the point in hoping and believing in something completely useless in the first place?

There is none. There is no point, to anything about him. He's nothing, and people don't care for nothing. They cared for something.

But then again, wasn't nothing... _something?_ And then, since he was nothing and nothing was something, wouldn't people care about him, too?

It's only human nature that keeps bringing him back to this positive state of thinking, and then he supposes that if this kind of thinking is right, things would make sense, maybe not now or even not in this lifetime, but one day, and this is why he's still alive and well to this day. Because whenever he has these train of thoughts, it would always bring him back to the positive, and it was the only thing he could be.

His head is spinning, and he decides he's been thinking too much and too deep and yet, too little, because he's sure that one day, if he thinks like this enough, he'll be able to pull out the truth, the real truth, out of this jumble of words and ideas floating around in his head and then he wouldn't _have to_ anymore. All he'd have to do is admit to it, and through admitting it could finally accept it, whatever it was.

But now, all he can do is keep positive and wait, wait until things finally make sense or they didn't (whichever the world thought best). Wait until he could understand why things turned out the way they did, and if it was for the best or it wasn't, and even why the world did this to him and if there was anything left for him.

But then, just as he's sure he's done, there are presences beside him, on either side of him. And he's _scared_ to look and see what or who it is, because he has an idea (but he's sure its just his human nature keeping him positive again), but he's afraid of what will happen to him and to everyone (because everyone was connected) if he was wrong. But then he thinks about what would happen if he was right, and if he was right but didn't look, and if he was wrong but didn't look. It's all just a matter of perspective, a bunch of scenarios and variables and possibilities, and this brings him to wonder what are the constants, the unchanging things in all of this. What stays the same time and time again.

"Blue..." He hears a soft, feminine voice whisper. A hand closes around his own, and he's scared again to look because _what if...?_

But then he decides he's not going to get anywhere by waiting, or by being scared, and so when he looks to his left and looks to his right, it all dawns on him.

_They are the constants._

In every scenario, possibility, turn-out, they were together. It didn't matter if they were apart or together the entire way, because in the end, everyone was connected. They were connected. And they'd always come back to him, no matter what, and he was glad his human nature kept him positive while he waited.

Because he was nothing. And people didn't care about nothing. They cared about something. But nothing was something, and so since he was nothing, they cared about him, too.

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**A/N: O.O Woah. If I'm being completely honest, I TOTALLY started writing this with the intent of making a fluffy, light-hearted fic, but then it started raining and it took a WHOLE new turn. So basically, without all the flowery language and everything, nothing really happens in this story. Blue is just sitting in the remains of Cinnabar Island thinking, and then Red and Leaf show up. But I'm actually really proud of this story. Everything just came in a huge rush of inspiration, and since I was writing this on my phone, the automatic spelling check might have messed up a few words, so I apologize if there are any errors in here that I didn't catch.**

**Well, regardless of how I meant for this to be, I hope you enjoyed! If you can, please leave a review! I love feedback! :)**


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